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‘Take your pick. I owe you one after pulling you away from yours.’ He opens his mouth as if he wants to protest me paying, but sensibly, he stays quiet. I don’t pay much attention to him while we analyse the selection. Unfortunately, it’s Friday night and pickings are slim. All I can see are cans of whiskey and coke.
‘Want to split some wine?’ Finn asks from somewhere to my right.
‘If you want?’ a man’s voice replies. ‘I was going to get some beers, but if you’re offering.’
My head shoots up and I find a man looking at Finn in total earnest. I’d suspect he were sober if not for the slight sway to his posture.
Half a second of confusion floods Finn’s face before it splits into an easy smile. ‘Unfortunately, I was asking my friend here. But on any other day, I promise I’d have said yes.’
I don’t really know Finn, but I’m certain he’s telling the truth.
‘Oh,’ the man says, looking at me with red-rimmed eyes. ‘Yeah, no, definitely drink with her. I’m not nearly as pretty.’
Finn grabs the man’s shoulder, a compliment rolling smoothly off his tongue. ‘Don’t say that. You’re extremely pretty.’
‘You think so?’
‘I’ve seen many faces in my lifetime, and yours is one of the loveliest.’ Who knew there was a Jane Austen novel set in a Tesco Express on Fleet Street?
‘You promise?’
‘Cross my heart,’ Finn says.
‘Well. Enjoy your bottle,’ the man says, picking up a four-pack of beer. ‘Think of me when you drink it.’
Finn nods sincerely and we watch his new friend walk to the crisps aisle, lightly bumping into the shelves as he goes.
‘Was that a yes to the wine?’ Finn asks, leaning against the edge of the fridge and holding up a bottle in the opposite hand, entirely unflustered by the interaction. I look back at the cans and the nauseating whiskey from earlier flashes across my memory.
‘Yeah. Let’s get wine. As long as it’s not red.’
When he’s not distracted by signs and statues, Finn matches my pace easily. We make a left off the Strand and head down a side street, the river just about visible in the distance. The buildings to our right cast the whole street in shadow, so as we approach the gate at the bottom, I can’t quite tell if it’s open, and I’m suddenly struck by the fear that this place I’m taking him to will be closed. But then, when we’re a few metres away, relief washes over me.
‘Tah dah,’ I say, motioning towards the gate, which sits at the foot of a set of concrete steps, flanked by high stone walls.
‘A staircase? Ava, you shouldn’t have.’
I shake my head and make my way up the stairs. At one point, I turn to check he’s following, and with the way his head suddenly whips to the side with a guilty smile, I wonder if he’s following me a bittooattentively.
‘You wanted a rooftop, here you go,’ I say, walking backwards to gauge his reaction as he reaches the top of the stairs. ‘We’re not very high up, so I’m sure there are better ones with better views, but I think this works.’
In the golden hour light, Finn crests the top step and his eyesdart around, taking in the view, before focusing on me. ‘This works.’
We lean over the far wall, looking down at the road below, which is still busy despite the bulk of rush hour traffic having dissipated. The sun sends beads of warm light dancing across the surface of the Thames beyond the road. In the distance the London Eye makes its lazy circuit, while Big Ben’s gold plating glints in the final moments of daylight, and behind them both, the sky’s an Impressionist’s delight; sweeping strokes of yellows and oranges illuminating lilac clouds.
Finn takes photos and asks me obscure, unanswerable questions about landmarks and bridges, before we both drop onto the bench behind us. I take the wine out of my bag just as the sun dips below the horizon.
‘I can empty my water bottle if you want to split it evenly,’ he says.
I unscrew the cap and pass it to him. ‘I don’t mind sharing if you don’t.’
‘Fine with me.’ He shrugs and takes a swig.
I can’t stop thinking about what Oliver-from-Hinge said. Bored? Not me. I can be spontaneous. I can accost a man in a pub and be sitting on a bench drinking wine with him half an hour later.AndI can tell Josie I did a platonic activity and it won’t even be a lie.
‘How have I never noticed this place? I come via Temple every day for work.’
His question’s rhetorical, but upon hearing the indeterminate twang in the way he says the word “via”, I have to ask my own question. ‘Where are you from? If I listen for English, that’s the accent I hear, but if I listen for American, I can hear that too.’
